


we have an arrangement

by coffeesuperhero



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the Lady Sif desires is to become one of the fiercest warriors her realm has ever known. All her exceedingly proper Asgardian extended family desires is to see her married and settled like a Lady should be. This is the story of how they all learned to get along-- or not-- and the dangers they faced along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. overture

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter: Sif reminisces about her childhood and how she came to live in the main city once more, everybody goes to Vanaheim for a little bit of fun, and somebody makes a very outrageous suggestion. Nothing overtly shippy in this chapter, but hang with me, I promise it's on the way! 
> 
> WARNINGS: **Canon typical violence**.
> 
>  _overture_ : in music, a piece at the beginning of a larger musical composition. alt.: a prelude to something more substantial.

In the late afternoon light, the Lady Sif carefully unbinds her armor and sets it aside, wrapping herself in layers of softer leather and fur. The day has been long but productive: her diligent work in the yards has earned her the rare praise of her mentor and an approving silent nod or two from some of the other warriors, men who even a month ago would barely acknowledge her presence save the occasional snort of disdain for this _woman_ who dared train with them and yet call herself a lady. She cares not for their derision today or any other day like it, she cares only that they learn to respect her efforts, for her hands are no less capable with a blade than their own. Pleased enough by those efforts today, Sif gives her weapons one last loving look before closing them away for the night, and as the light of Yggdrasil fades to silver above her and the lamps in her chambers flare to a stronger life, she settles upon her couch and takes up a pen and parchment, hoping her leaderless thoughts will marshal themselves into something more orderly on the page. She sighs into the stillness of her chambers, wishing for a moment they could be the rooms of her youth, that the distant noise of all the servants running about could instead be the merchants and traders and starfarers of Lady Geirdís's household instead of the servants of her uncle's home. 

It has barely been a year since she first came to live here in the sprawling city that surrounds the great golden halls of Gladsheim at the very heart of her beloved realm, and though in her very early youth she had walked those halls with her parents and made friends with the young princes, she feels that after so many years away this place will not feel like home for some time to come. She may have walked these halls as a child, but her childhood was many years ago, and in her absence from this place her heart has made a home of a very different skyline. 

When her father and mother had gone to Valhalla, their deaths untimely yet honorable, as a child she had left the city for the seaside and the company of her father's eldest sister, the Lady Geirdís. Unmarried and quite content to remain that way, Lady Geirdís oversaw the family's trading business with a firm hand and a shrewd mind. Her household was near to the very edges of Asgard, and on a clear evening the stars of a thousand worlds were visible from her towers, distant lights that sparkled with the promise of excitement and adventure. A busy place, Lady Geirdís's home regularly saw visitors from many realms, including, if the rumors were to be believed, more than a few pirates merely masquerading as legitimate starfarers. 

All of this was much to the dismay of Lord Svellr, her mother's youngest brother, who had much preferred the Lady Sif remain in his household in the city and learn the ways of court alongside her cousins, comporting herself as the lady she was born to be instead of gallivanting around the galaxy with the starfarers that were so beloved of her eccentric aunt. But Sif had always longed for adventure, and that was something that Lord Svellr and his wife the Lady Spana could not promise her, so away she went to westernmost shores of Asgard, where the seas spilled over into the stars. There, from time immemorial, before the Bifrost, when Odin Allfather was not yet born and his father old King Borr still a babe, her own father's family had left their realm to sail the stars, trading with other peoples around the cosmos, and sometimes, if the occasion called for it, fiercely fighting their way home. The great library of her aunt's home holds volumes of their correspondence and remembrances, tomes of cartographies and journals with descriptions and depictions of friend and foe alike. Their stories were an endless source of comfort to a maiden who had suddenly found herself adrift without sight of shore, and in those books a younger Sif had found strength and courage, more than enough to fortify her already stout heart. If she woke in the night afraid and alone, she would look up at the arches of the stones above her head, comforted by the determination of the ancient hands of her forefathers that had put them there. 

Their ancestors' fighting spirit aside, her aunt Geirdís has always preferred to charm the fight out of ruffians with a well-placed word and the offer of a stout flagon of mead; nevertheless, she instructed her niece in how best to land a blow and use a sword, and Sif remembers those early lessons with a smile now as the light of the Great Tree wanes into silver stardust above her head, changing the color and tone of the city outside her windows. 

"Most importantly, niece," Geirdís had said, when Sif had at last succeeded in knocking her aunt to the floor of the training pavilion, "you must learn how to fall in a way that ensures you may get up again." 

"I do not plan to fall, Dísa," Sif had said proudly, just before her aunt activated a hidden mechanism that shook the floor and allowed Geirdís to sweep her feet from under her. 

"It has been my experience, my darling, that no one does," Geirdís had replied, before she rose to her feet to offer Sif a helping hand. 

When Sif had first expressed her wish to become a warrior, her aunt had smiled as though she had already known this secret desire of her niece's heart, and the first sword she had gifted Sif had arrived so swiftly from Alfheim that Sif would swear that Lady Geirdís had sent for it ere she ever imparted her hopes for her future to her aunt. 

"Use it in good health, _ǫndóttr_ ," Geirdís had said, cupping Sif's chin in one hand, conveying her support and her pride in her niece with her words as much as with her gift, for _ǫndóttr_ she calls Sif only when she is at her most ferocious, fiery-eyed, and fierce. It is what the pirates call Geirdís, once long ago thinking they could use the word to wound her, but after making her acquaintance realizing she wore it as proudly as a queen wears her crown. It is a mantle Sif will carry with equal pride in her own heart, for Sif has loved Geirdís all her life, a mother and a sister, a kindred and a friend. When she resolved to make her own way as a warrior, they had both of them agreed that there was no better place for Sif to train than here in the palace yards under the tutelage of the realm's fiercest soldiers, and Lord Svellr and Lady Spana had been gracious enough to offer her residence in her childhood home, even though they abhorred her reasons for returning to it. 

"Ladies do not make war with _swords_ ," Spana is overly fond of saying when she has had an extra measure of wine. With Sif's damnable habit of _cursing_ in mind-- growing up around pirates will have that sort of effect on a young Lady's speech-- Spana will then turn her attention directly to her wayward niece and add, "Even their _words_ are graceful." 

Should the wine continue to flow, Sif has become so accustomed by now to the remainder of Spana's speech that she can practically mouth along, much to the amusement of her cousins. What a _marvelously proper_ lady Sif's own mother had been, Spana will surely go on to say. Then, dabbing at her eyes decorously, she will bemoan the loss to the nobility that it had been when the beautiful Lady Arnfríðr perished alongside her husband all those years ago, two of the last Asgardians to fall victim to those of Laufey's minions who had refused to obey their king's surrender to Odin. But oh! Odin, be praised! What a blessing to the Realm Eternal this peace with the Jotnar has been, Spana will eventually conclude, with words that are only a hair's breadth apart after all of the wine she has imbibed. At last, seeing his one opportunity to end the evening, Lord Svellr will raise his glass and propose a toast to Odin Allfather, and then with relief Sif will lift her glass and gulp down her own wine and excuse herself to her chambers. 

Given that far too many dinners had concluded in that manner for much of her first year with her uncle's family, Sif had written home to Lady Geirdís almost as often as she fought in the yards, until the day that her aunt had replied to her most recent missive with exceeding swiftness, saying only:

>   
> _I am always glad to hear from you, daughter, but I wonder: should your fingers not be gripping your sword more frequently than they grip your pen? Trouble yourself less with the prating of an old noblewoman and more with the tasks in front of you,_ ǫndóttr _, and there is nothing in all the realms that will defeat you. Forth and fear not! Those arrogant young men you meet in the yards will learn to respect your strength in time, but no songs will be sung of the lady who whiled away her hours in her chambers, exchanging a sad lengthy correspondence with her aunt. If I receive a reply from you before the month has run its course, I will fly to the city myself, and woe betide you if I should feel the need to do so, for well you know my opinion of the court._
> 
> _Show mercy to yourself, child; save none for your enemies, howsoever you find them._
> 
> _And by all means, dear Sif, feel free to stop suffering fools: we already live such long lives, and they are only made excruciatingly longer by the wagging of foolish tongues._
> 
> _All my love,  
>  G._

Thereafter, she has endured far fewer dinners with her uncle and his wife, instead exchanging those tedious affairs for brief meals in the inns or taverns around the palace after a long day's work in the yards. The less she writes, the less homesick she finds herself, but Sif still longs for her aunt's counsel and her stalwart spirit, and so it is to Geirdís she attempts to address her words this evening. Her writing does not last long ere it is interrupted by an ongoing cacophony beneath her chambers, however. Below in the courtyard, there is far more commotion than is usual from the household servants as they prepare the evening meal; Lord Svellr is due to return from Vanaheim at any moment, and thus she can hear far more scurrying than she might otherwise. There is a tense but hopeful air in the house tonight, for Svellr is set to bring with him pronouncements of a _betrothal_ : all month she has heard naught from her eldest cousin, Ragneiðr, that did not have to do with marriage. Indeed it has been something of an obsession with the young lady since she came of age just after Sif's arrival, and though long ago as children they played together, now Ranka talks of nothing but her wedding day and her future husband and how she will style furnishings in her own household. Sif can find no common ground with her at all, save the occasional mutual interest in a pleasant summer day and a long walk in the gardens.

In her other cousins, Auðbjǫrn and Nauma, she has found unexpected companionship. They were neither of them born when Sif lived in the city as a girl, but now she finds them much more interesting. Aubi, her uncle's only son and heir, loves nothing so much as stories and the telling of them, and on many long nights when she has wished for home his tales have filled her evenings with laughter instead of weary memories. Just as much as she enjoys his cheerful retelling of events at court, he too delights in her accountings of her father's family and all their adventures, and they have traded many tales in the course of her time her, usually to the joy of Nauma, Svellr's middle child. 

Quiet, careful Nauma loves books and magic, and she bears such a resemblance to Heimdall both in her beautiful face and the infinite vastness of her eyes that it is as though _she_ is his sister and not Sif, though it was Sif's mother the Lady Arnfríðr who had the honor of being one of the Gatekeeper's nine mothers, long before Sif's birth. If ever anyone should need take her brother's post, Asgard should surely call upon her cousin and they would not find themselves disappointed, though if Sif's suspicions are correct, Nauma has her eye not on the multiverse and its multitudinous happenings but instead upon a young soldier named Adalbert, far below her station and guaranteed to upset her mother's meticulous planning for her youngest daughter's future. When Spana discovers her daughter's infatuation, Sif, for one, hopes she is on some other realm, for she would gladly face death in battle, but she would never willingly endure the wrath of a noblewoman whose plans for her daughters have gone amiss: especially since somehow it will all be _Sif's_ fault. At least Ranka's betrothal will make Nauma's defection moderately more palatable to their mother. Or at least, so Sif hopes. 

Sif sets aside her pen and parchment and goes to stand at the balcony, sighing her cares into the warm evening breeze. She has no idea why it is all so complicated, for indeed, nobility or not, many in Asgard marry for love, not politics. Not she, however; for her own part she is content exactly as she is, and though there have been a few lovers who have held her attention over the years, including several who merely passed through her aunt's household on their way to the other end of the galaxy, it is Asgard that the Lady Sif loves first and best. But she cannot marry the realm. Instead, she will do the next best thing and swear her life and her sword to it. This should please her family, yet her personal reticence to engage in any sort of long term romantic entanglements has instead been a constant source of irritation for the entirely proper Lord Svellr and Lady Spana, who have insisted that she remain a guest in their household lest she venture off unescorted and shame the family with more than just her _warrioring_. 

It is, in a word, exhausting.

In the courtyard below Sif's chambers, Lady Spana walks amidst the servants, overseeing their progress. They scatter around her like waves about a rock lest they break upon the shore of her disapproval. She calls out orders as they fly by, hastening to comply with her wishes; she never shouts, but her voice is like steel. Sif has no particular disdain for her aunt's preferred mode of making war, she only wishes to escape it for herself, and wishes Spana could extend to her the same courtesy. When Spana looks up to Sif's windows, they exchange a brief nod, and then with another sigh, Sif turns from the windows, intent on attempting to resume her letter home.

But then from the corridor outside her chambers there is a shuffling, and soon thereafter twin knocks upon her doors; Sif bids her guests enter, knowing before the doors swing open that her cousins are outside. 

"Here you are, cousin," Nauma says, Auðbjǫrn traipsing after her with the strange gait of a youth who has still not quite grown into his adult body. 

"Was I lost?" Sif queries, smiling at them. 

"Hiding, more like. And we have come to collect you," Auðbjǫrn says, grinning as they move to take up positions on either side of her. "You did not think we would let you escape the evening's festivities, surely." 

"No, Nauma, Aubi, I beg you," she laughs, pushing away her cousins' persistent hands as they reach for her arms, "I will not come down, I was late at the training grounds and I am exceedingly weary." 

"Oh, Sif, you know Ranka will never forgive you if you do not come to hear the news of her betrothal," Nauma says, tugging once more at Sif's arm underneath her layers of furs. 

"And _we_ shall never forgive you if we must endure the announcement alone," Aubi adds, merriment dancing in his eyes. 

"Come to dinner, cousin," Nauma insists. "It cannot suit a _warrior_ to hide from ill news under a mountain of furs." 

"The news will be joyous and I hide not from it, but rather from the _shrieking_ that shall accompany it," Sif says, and right on cue, there is a loud screech from the courtyard; they all peer briefly over the balcony to take note of Ragneiðr, beside herself with joy at the sight of the seal on the scroll her father holds out to her. 

"Pretend that it is a battle cry, dear cousin, and perhaps it will be a more melodious sound in your ears," Aubi suggests, winking as he elbows Sif in the ribs. 

She looks down at their hopeful faces, knowing as she does that she will not deny them. A warrior recognizes defeat, surely. 

"Very well," she says, and they cheer. "I will come with you."

\+ + +

When they reach the hall where the grand table is prepared for their meal, they find Lord Svellr and Lady Spana awaiting them alongside a very excitable Ragneiðr. After they take up their places at the table, Lord Svellr launches into a lengthy retelling of his journey, dancing around the news of the engagement until poor Ranka is squirming in her seat.

"Oh, Svellr, do not deny her any longer," Spana laughs. "You have already showed her the scroll, let us make it official." 

"Very well, wife," he agrees, standing, glass in one hand and scroll in the other. "As you may know, Lord Garðr of Vanaheim has been seeking a match for his third son for some time now." 

Sif, bored already, nudges food around her plate. By Odin's festering eye socket, she wishes she did _not_ know these various facts about the Vanir nobility, but this news about Lord Garðr and his boy-- Gjallandi? Gjalfvér?-- is unfortunately never far from her mind, for Ranka has not ceased to speculate about it since Svellr's departure for Vanaheim a month ago, and even as scarce as she has tried to be, Sif could hardly help but internalize some of her cousin's oft-repeated trivia. As her uncle's pronouncement drags on and on, she returns mentally to the yards, her hands underneath the table miming different holds for different weapons, her feet dancing quietly from one defensive posture to another. Eventually, she feels Nauma's boot against her shin, and she returns with a start to the present conversation to find that her uncle has bequeathed the scroll to Ragneiðr and is now beaming at her eldest cousin while holding aloft his glass of wine. 

"-- and so," Svellr is saying, as Sif hastens to raise her own cup, "our sweet Ranka is now pledged to young Gjafvaldr of Vanaheim--" 

_Gjafvaldr!_ That is the young man's name. A fine gift indeed, Sif thinks; she does not look at Aubi, for in her periphery she can already see his lips twitching behind his flagon.

"-- and so we congratulate you, my daughter, and we drink to your health and the health of your future marriage," Svellr says, and they all drink and cheer and wish their dear Ragneiðr good fortune and many fat healthy babes, but that is, of course, not the end of the celebration but the beginning. The remainder of the feast is long and Sif eats little, though she imagines she takes in more sustenance than her cousin, whose excitement keeps her from putting any food into her mouth at all. Instead, words spill out of it in a continuous stream; Sif had thought surely they would all get some reprieve from romantic chatter now that the engagement has been secured, but her hope had been in vain: now there is a _wedding_ to plan. She returns to mentally practicing battle formations until it becomes apparent that all conversation has stopped and her entire family is now staring at her end of the table, where she sits plainly miming an attack formation, hands raised above her head as though they held a sword and shield. 

"Lady Sif?" Svellr asks, frowning. "Are you well?" 

"Perfectly," Sif says, dropping her hands back to her lap while Nauma and Aubi snicker. For the thousandth time, she wishes that Asgardian nobility's customs were not so rigid, that along with the rules she has bent and the traditions she has broken to undertake her warrior's training, she could also have dispensed with the prohibition against unmarried noblewomen living alone unless they had no other living blood kin. Even her proud, stubborn aunt had technically been living in Vestheimr at her brother's estate until his death, however, so there really seems to be little escape from this nonsense. 

"We are all delighted at what this engagement means for your future, dear Ranka," Spana says, patting her daughter's hand even as she stares worriedly at her niece, "but I think we should look to your cousin's future as well." 

"You really need not worry about me," Sif protests. 

"Oh, but we do, niece," Svellr says. "Not for your sake alone, but for the dishonor it would do the family, were we to fail to find you even one suitor before we found husbands for our own daughters." 

"It is true that I will be residing here during Ranka's marriage, uncle, and I am grateful that you have opened your home to me while I train, but I do still intend to return to Lady Geirdís after I have taken my warrior's oath," Sif points out, shifting in her seat. "Surely she should be the one seeing to my...affairs." 

Her aunt and uncle exchange a look that clearly says they know Ragnarok shall come before _that_ day passes under the light of the Great Tree, but aloud they say only, "Indeed." 

"If it pleases you, however," Sif says, folding her napkin with extra care before placing it on the table, "I shall speak to my benefactress about the matter. Perhaps the, hmm, watchful gaze of the Lady Geirdís has fallen on some young man in Vestheimr." 

"Perhaps," Svellr says, but Aubi can contain himself no longer, and chortles, "If she has, cousin, you may rest assured she has kept his attentions for herself and not wooed him in your name." 

"Entirely possible," Sif admits with a sly smile, for her aunt has indeed had many lovers over the centuries, and at least one of the lovesick fools turns up once a year to make protestations of love and beg for the Lady's hand in marriage, which she will not grant, preferring to preside alone over her household. 

It is the dearest wish of Sif's heart to have just such a life, should she attain her aunt's age instead of perishing in the glory of battle. 

"Well," Spana says, clearing her throat and forcing a smile onto her face. "We will discuss the matter further, niece, but perhaps not this evening." 

"Thank you," Sif mutters, and escapes as soon as she can to her chambers: fortitude is an admirable quality in a warrior, but as a niece she finds that the ability to slip away unnoticed is, occasionally, far better.

\+ + +

The next morning, Sif is up before the dawn, for today is the annual Festival of the Hunt on the sunny realm of Vanaheim, and this year the Warriors Three have invited her to be a part of their hunting party. Though they may not always have been the most successful party-- she suspects that many of their tales of glory are highly embellished-- they are old campaigners, and she is honored to join them. She dresses as quickly as she can, triple checking that she has all the weapons she desires before hurrying downstairs to seek out a quick breakfast. In the kitchens, she finds Ragneiðr; she takes a breath and hopes to be able to make a hasty retreat, should her cousin attempt to engage in her in lengthy conversation about marriage.

"Good morning, cousin," Sif says, and Ranka starts slightly at the sword at her cousin's hip. "The Hunt," Sif clarifies, and to her dismay, Ranka's eyes take on a far-away quality, and Sif knows precisely what is coming. 

"My _betrothed_ will be participating in the Hunt, you know," Ranka tells her, staring dreamy-eyed at nothing in particular as Sif attempts to maneuver around her, eating with haste so that she may make for the Bifrost chamber where her friends no doubt await.

"How lovely," Sif says, around a mouthful of fruit and bread. It is hardly her most ladylike moment, but though Ranka's nose wrinkles at her ill manners she makes no comment, only carries on explaining how bold and brave and (probably) handsome her Lord must look out on the hunt. 

"Do you even know the boy's name, sister?" Aubi asks, breezing into the kitchen with a book and a steaming flagon of cider. He winks at Sif as he passes; she struggles to restrain her laughter.

Ragneiðr does not comment upon her brother's jest directly, but she does bear herself up taller and clasp her hands together in front of herself, saying to Sif, "All of this is to say, cousin, that if you should meet my Lord _Gjafvaldr_ on the field today, it would be no shame to you if you lost to him, for he will soon be your family." 

"A loss to family is still a loss, Ranka," Sif says, plucking some cheese from the table with a shrug. She hefts the cheese and lifts it in her cousin's direction, smiling as she does. " _If_ your lord can best me, however, I promise to bear him no ill will." 

With that, she takes her leave of them, sauntering from the hall to the stables with her sword bouncing proudly at her hip. 

Vakri, her horse, is saddled and ready when she arrives; she mounts up quickly, absently patting the horse's neck as she ensures that she is truly prepared to depart. Vakri whinnies at her and she smiles, promising him they will go soon. Dappled grey with a wiry dark mane and a personality as large as her own, he is truly a magnificent horse; he had been a gift from her aunt before she had come of age, and they have grown together like childhood friends. He flies swiftly out the gate and down the rainbow bridge, and when she reaches the bifrost chamber, she finds Hogun and Fandral waiting. 

"Good day, Lady Sif," Hogun calls. 

"Good day, friends," she answers, as Vakri's hooves clop carefully around Heimdall's raised podium to line up with her friends in front of the as-yet-unopened portal to Vanaheim. Vakri, ever skeptical of this particular method of travel, flicks his ears in agitation, and Sif leans over to give him a reassuring pat. She is discussing strategies with Hogun and Fandral when Volstagg rides into the chamber at last. 

"Apologies for my tardiness, friends," he says heartily. "I promised the children I would take my breakfast with them." 

"Did you take it from them or with them?" Fandral jokes, and Volstagg laughs loudly and slaps his belly. 

"Why not both?" he roars, and Sif shakes her head and chuckles. 

"Shall we?" Hogun asks, gesturing at the portal, and they all cheer. "Heimdall, we are ready." 

"May your Hunt be fruitful, warriors," says Heimdall, and reaches for his sword.

Sif leans over to whisper in Vakri's ear. "Ready, old friend?" she asks, and then grins when the horse snorts back at her. 

"Let us be off, friends," Fandral shouts, gesturing towards the portal as he urges his horse onward. "For Asgard!" 

"For Asgard! Thank you, good Heimdall," Volstagg calls as he and Hogun follow their comrade. 

Sif is the last to depart, waving silently to her brother as she does; he gives her a solemn nod in return, and that is that last thing she sees before the world blurs into a kaleidoscope of color, resolving itself after a few moments into the greens and browns and golds of the fields of Vanaheim. Vakri's hooves trample the grass into the mud beneath them as Sif urges him onward after the others, all of them headed to the pavilion where the Hunt will begin. 

Unlike other Vanir celebrations, the Festival of the Hunt is held not in any of Vanaheim's great cities but in its countryside, for the aim of the Hunt is to kill as many wild beasts as possible in the few hours allotted the hunting parties. Each year the Hunt organizers round up and release hundreds of monsters into the hills and fields and forests of the country, largely unpopulated areas of land where they may roam without endangering Vanir citizens. The few Vanir that do dwell here are nobles with country estates, and those relocate during the Festival. When they arrive, there is no one at the pavilion save the nobles who sponsor the Hunt and the other assembled hunting parties; they see two familiar faces in the crowd, and ride alongside them. 

"Thor! Loki!" Fandral says, as their horses settle in next to the princes'. "I am preemptively saddened by your defeat today, my friends." 

"That is strange, Fandral," Thor says, grinning as he reaches over to clap his friend on the back, "for we were just about to issue our condolences to you for your own losses." 

They trade good-natured insults with one another for a few moments more, until Vakri, at times unusually fond of Loki's horse and at others unusually irritated by her, seems to be having a day where he is more fond than not, and without Sif's urging he sidles closer than is strictly necessary to the alabaster flanks of Mjǫll, pushing Sif's leg against Loki's in the process.

" _Vakri_ ," Sif chides, embarrassed; Loki, at least, looks more amused than annoyed. 

"Your horse seems to understand, Lady Sif, how unfortunate it is that you have thrown in your lot with these ruffians instead of accepting our invitation instead," Loki says, as Sif finally manages to coax Vakri marginally further from Mjǫll.

She frowns over at him. "I was not aware that such an invitation had been extended, my lord." 

"Of course it was," Thor exclaims, just as Loki says, "It certainly should have been," and then they each turn to the other and say simultaneously, "I thought _you_ asked her." 

"I think I have found myself in the right company, friends," she says, laughing, "for at least these fine warriors remembered to request that I join them." 

Loki opens his mouth, no doubt to make some haughty remark, but then the trumpets sound, signaling that the festivities are soon to begin, and they all turn to face the stage, awaiting the announcement that the Hunt is on. After a few boring speeches from the assembled nobles, during which Vakri does his best to inch closer to Mjǫll, and Sif with increasing irritation does her best to keep him from it, the trumpets sound again and they are off. Thor and Loki ride to the east, while Sif and the others chase a trail west; whatever thought she might have spared either of the princes vanished in the thrill of battle. Their labors are not easy, but neither are they overly challenging: with the Warriors Three in her company, she finds few foes she cannot take on with confidence. Soon, they begin to work seamlessly as a team, vanquishing the monsters they find as easily as they might knock down mannequins in the yards at home. With the work so simple as to approach boredom, Sif soon looks for more of a challenge, and when they see a tower of smoke rising over the trees to the east, Sif volunteers to go and report back to the others. Thinking she has found a new crop of monsters, or even the elusive black dragon that the Vanir supposedly release each year, Sif rides Vakri hard through the field toward the column of smoke. The nearer she comes to the evidence of fire, the more screaming she can hear, and she grips the reins tightly in one hand and reaches to her back for her sword with the other, drawing the blade as she and Vakri clear the trees. What she finds, however is no dragon, no monsters: instead, a cadre of fire demons surrounds the tent reserved for the nobles. That they should not be here in this realm is plain; that they have decided to disregard the terms of the Vanir's peace treaty with Muspelheim is also clear. Seeing no time to ride back for the aid of her friends, she charges ahead alone. 

At first, things go reasonably well: two of the rogues fall swiftly beneath her blade, saving several of the Vanir. Irritated, she motions for them to get out of the way; Vakri whinnies loudly and rears back, kicking another demon in the chest as he does. "Go!" she shouts to the nobles who have not already fled. "And send other hunters!" Wide-eyed and terrified as they are, she cannot be sure they will obey her commands, but at least they are no longer in her way. Unfortunately, the demons are not as interested in one lone warrior, and they give chase to the nobles. Though Vakri snorts his disapproval, he gives her his all when she nudges her heels against his flanks; she keeps pace well enough with the creatures, slaying another as she overtakes it on the path back toward the pavilion where the Hunt began. 

When Vakri jerks to a stop just beyond the pavilion, Sif shakes her sword at her remaining foes; there are five in all forming a ring about the stage. They taunt her and she taunts them back, but even as she does she knows that her victory here is not assured. In the center of the stage, Vanir dignitaries crouch, horrified and weaponless. No other members of the Hunt seem to be riding to her aid, from her own party or from any other. Vakri stamps the ground and turns to and fro as she directs him, surveying her battle ground. Finally, she sheaths her sword, eyes to the ground, feigning defeat; as her enemies laugh, she digs her heels into Vakri's flanks and charges, pulling a pole from the ground to her right as she goes. It had been holding up some of the nobles' banners, but now it will do a different kind of service in her hands. The makeshift pike impales two of the demons, and quick work from her sword takes down one more. A dagger to the throat renders a fourth useless, and now she is back to where she began, facing the podium, but only one foe. From the style of its dress and the way it carries itself, she surmises that It is the leader of this horrid band, and more powerful than the others. 

Sensing that open combat will not win her the day, she acts on impulse, hurling her sword at the creature; it goes wide of its intended target on purpose, but it also angers her enemy enough that when she directs Vakri to gallop away, it follows her. If she remembers correctly from previous Hunts-- and she dearly hopes that she does, for it is too late for an alternate plan-- the site of the pavilion is part of an old Vanir settlement, and though no one resides there now, the Vanir have left some of their buildings, including an outdated piece of machinery that collected and distributed rainwater for use in the old village. Last year the Hunt had occurred on a particularly hot day, and all the hunters had taken turns riding under the streaming water. It had not been overly clean, but it had been cool enough. Cold water will not slay a fire demon, Sif knows, but cold water on a hot surface will steam, and she can use any distraction she can manufacture to her advantage now. 

A short distance away, she sees the old tower of her memory and smiles grimly. The Vanir had been careful last year only to let the water stream slowly from the pipes for fear that overworking it would burst them, but it is exactly that fear she hopes to realize here. As she and Vakri gain ground, Sif hurls her shield with all her might at the mechanism on the side that controls the water flow. Her aim is true: gallons of water begin streaming from the ancient pipe, far too quickly for the old machine to accommodate it all. Soon it is overloaded and water bursts from every conceivable surface of the wooden reservoir, spraying jets of water everywhere in all directions. The fire demon, too close behind her to stop in time, is drenched. When the water hits the skin of her foe, the temperature difference causes it to sizzle and steam; before she loses sight of her enemy, she throws her final dagger at its head before passing back towards the pavilion to collect her sword. Behind her, the steam clears; as it does, Vakri brings her closer. She can see that her foe lies half-conscious on the ground...and that a few feet away, half the remaining nobles are standing nearby in their best finery, soaked through with dirty water and shivering in the afternoon breeze.

"You're welcome," she says, as primly as she can manage, and promptly stabs the dazed fire demon through the heart with her sword. 

That, of course, is the moment that her friends, along with Thor and Loki, finally choose to arrive, and all of them sit shocked on their mounts, surveying the damage around them. 

"Well, Lady Sif," Fandral says, blinking in the fading sunlight, "we shall certainly be adding those to our Hunt totals for the day." 

"Will you also be adding the pavilion?" Volstagg asks, pointing to the smoldering building across from them, and the others laugh.

"Or the tower?" queries Hogun. 

"I am doubly sad now that we did not manage to ask you to join our party," Thor observes, and she shrugs proudly as Thor grins at her. 

Loki, however, says nothing, though the set of his jaw and the wideness of his eyes as he looks back and forth between the nobles and the Lady Sif speak volumes regardless. Why she feels so determined to defend herself from his unspoken criticism, she does not know, but the urge is overwhelming. 

"I had everything under control!" Sif protests, just as behind them, the stage bearing the nobles' banners collapses, another victim to the flames. 

"I see," he says finally. 

"Could you have done better, prince?" she asks, pointing her bloody sword at him, the frenzy of battle still pounding through her veins. 

"I could hardly have done worse," he jokes, and she laughs along with the others, but she is not nearly as mirthful. As the others chuckle, however, she catches his eye for a moment, and perhaps it is only the slanting afternoon light, but she feels certain that he smiles at her, however briefly; stranger still, she feels that it might have been genuine, if fleeting. She has no time to meditate on such matters, though: with the Hunt over, halted by the untimely arrival of the demons, they return home. But when they arrive in Asgard, it is not long before they learn that news of their exploits has reached home before them: no sooner has Sif returned from taking Vakri back to the stables than she is met in the entryway by Aubi, his normally cheerful features grim and mirthless. 

"Good evening, cousin," Sif says, watching with care as his frown deepens.

"I think you had best come with me, Sif," he sighs. "Unless you can quickly exhort your friends the princes to charge you with some task on furthest Alfheim." 

"What has happened to make you frown so?" she asks, but he will only shake his head, and she follows behind him until they reach the rest of the family. 

Ragneiðr stands in the center of the room by the fire, weeping, her mother and sister at her side. Lord Svellr stands apart from them, pacing back and forth. 

"What has happened?" Sif asks again, this time of all her family. For a brief, horrible moment, she fears that there is some ill news from Vestheimr, but then Ragneiðr speaks through her tears, and the coldness that seized her heart fades, replaced at first by surprise and then a slowly burning anger. 

"This is all _your_ fault," Ragneiðr cries, pointing at Sif. "How could you? You've ruined _everything_!"

"Ranka?" Sif asks, stretching out her hand, but her cousin turns her whole body away to sob into her mother's shoulder. 

"Lord Garðr has heard of your... _adventure_ in his realm today," Svellr explains, holding out a scroll to her. She steps over to take it, unrolling it and reading while her relatives continue to speak, frowning at both the words on the page and the words in her ears. 

"He is extremely vexed by your impertinence," Spana chastises. "Burning the banners of the nobles? Sif, what were you thinking?" 

"I was thinking that they were under attack," she says, but they pay her no mind. 

"And he has threatened to recall his promise for his son to marry Ragneiðr," Svellr continues. "He wants certain _assurances_ that you will not cause trouble in future." 

"How utterly useless," Sif declares, irritated, tossing the scroll onto a nearby table. "Who would want a husband from so fickle a family?" 

" _I_ would," Ragneiðr shouts, turning at last from her mother's shoulder to face her cousin, the fury of a thousand angry warriors written on her face. "We do not all dishonor our families so freely, _Lady_ Sif!" 

"Surely something can be done," Sif says, trying to speak as calmly as she can even as anger at her cousin's words twists hotly in her belly. 

"You can go back to your benighted pirates or disappear from the realm entirely," Ragneiðr suggests, and before Sif can respond, Svellr clears his throat. 

"Lady Sif. While it is true that your... more permanent absence might allow cooler heads to prevail--" 

Sif shakes her head so vigorously that her hair makes a snapping sound in the tense air. "My training will not permit me to do so." 

Nauma steps between them, the long braids of her own dark hair swinging at her shoulders as she does. "Perhaps another family in the city could--" 

"Oh! Who would take her, Nauma?" Ragneiðr demands. "It does not take the blessed sight of cousin Heimdall to see that she is an absolute disgrace! A _lady_ warrior! Of all the vile--" 

"Hold just a moment," Sif begins, her temper flaring fully to life at last. 

"No, Sif, please, do not shout at her," Nauma begs, catching up Sif's hand in her own. "But perhaps Ranka has made a suggestion: what about cousin Hemidall? Could he not--" 

Spana interrupts. "Heimdall watches the universe, he cannot be expected to mind an impertinent child." 

"I am _not_ a child and I do _not_ need _minding_ ," Sif says, her teeth grinding against every word. 

Spana throws up her hands. "Do you not? Buildings destroyed! Fields burnt!" 

"Defending them from fire demons!" Sif shouts back. "I would like to see you do better! What would you have me do, _whine_ at them?" 

"Sif, please," Nauma says, and Sif tries to bite back her rage. 

"You could do as we have suggested before, _dear niece_ ," Spana says, "and at least attempt to find yourself a husband. _That_ is very nearly all that will placate the Lord." 

Sif looks from her cousins to her aunt and uncle and back at her own hands, still dirty with the grime of battle. 

"I will do nothing before I speak with Lady Geirdís," Sif declares. 

"I thought you might say that," Svellr says, and holds up his hand for silence from his family. "The Lady Geirdís is already summoned from Vestheimr, and she should be arriving shortly. May I suggest, niece, that you use the time until then to _bathe_?" 

"Yes, thank you, uncle, you may," Sif says, drawing herself up to her full height and arching an eyebrow in the direction of her chambers. "By your leave?" 

Svellr shakes his head, but waves her on all the same. Though she may walk with her head held high, her heart sinks lower and lower at this predicament and her uncertainty as to how she may extricate herself from it. She would rather be backed alone into a cavern by seventeen rotting mountain trolls than quit her training and be forced to live as only half of who she is, for a Lady she may be, but Sif is also war; she can feel its drumbeat in her very blood. Finally, in the relative sanctity of her own chambers, she lets fly all the curses she could not utter in front of her family, thinking only of her hatred for this ridiculous Lord Garðr, author of all her discontent. 

"Of all the short-witted, leather-necked, stinking swine in all the Nine," she swears, sinking down onto her bed with her head in her hands. "Odin's beard and Frigga's hand, what am I going to _do_?"

\+ + +

After Sif has endured an hour of bathing and dressing while sadly contemplating what many miserable fates may befall her, there is a determined knock at her chamber door; before she can grant the petitioner permission to enter, the doors swing open, revealing her aunt.

"Dísa," Sif says, and when her aunt holds out her arms, Sif goes to her immediately. "Oh, I missed you." 

"I missed you too, child," her aunt replies, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before stepping away and settling herself on a nearby couch. "Now. What have you gotten yourself into, _ǫndóttr_?" 

"Rather a lot of trouble," Sif sighs. "I am informed that I will only escape it if I find myself a _husband_." 

"We could always fabricate one for you," Geirdís proposes, knocking her shoulder against Sif's, but her aunt's remark does not improve her mood. 

"You're as bad as Loki," Sif mutters, and Geirdís snorts her opinion of that. "I think we would be found out." 

"Hmmph. I think we should not be, if I wished that we shouldn't," her aunt disagrees, but Sif only laughs and shakes her head. "Oh, very well, if you do not trust my efforts at espionage, we shall make an honest woman of you in an honest way." 

"Thank you," Sif says wryly. 

"Who would you even marry? Surely not some simpering court lord." 

"I have no idea," Sif sighs, and finally, sitting here with the one person she trusts more than anyone else in all the realms, she allows herself to unburden her heart and give voice to the one possibility she does not wish to contemplate. "Dísa, should I come home to Vestheimr? Surely there is someone there skilled enough in the art of war that I might--" 

Geirdís reaches for her hands, stalling her question. "Hush, child, I would move here myself to keep you letting go of this dream." 

"No--" 

"Do not tell me what to do, Lady Sif. You do not yet rule over my household," Geirdís says sternly, and Sif pulls her hands from her aunt's grasp to stand and walk the floor in front of the couch. 

"And what then?" Sif demands. "Who will oversee things at home, if you are here? How many lessons have I been made to endure where you have pressed upon me the importance of a firm hand in maintaining the political authority of the Crown at the very point where all the Nine's inhabitants may converge to trade and--" 

"Darling child," Geirdís interrupts, reaching for Sif's hands once more, "I will not live forever, you cannot imagine I do not have plans in place." 

"I thought I was your plan," Sif says, staring down at their hands. 

"And so you are, _ástin mín_ , if you wish it," Geirdís replies, squeezing Sif's hands gently. "But I would have you come to it much later in your life, after all other dreams have been accomplished, not forgotten out of duty. I want it for you only if it is what _you_ want." 

"My lady?" 

They both look towards the chamber doors, where a servant stands, hesitant to enter. 

"Yes?" Sif says, beckoning to the young woman. 

"I beg your pardon, my Lady Sif, but Lord Svellr requests your presence in the receiving room immediately," she says, wringing her hands when Lady Geirdís stands to accompany Sif. "I am sorry, Lady Geirdís, but he specifically requested only Sif." 

The two women exchange a look, and then Sif nods at the servant. "Thank you," she says. "Please inform my uncle that I will be along shortly." 

"If you go, then go a warrior, for that is what you are, regardless of how they may feel about it," Geirdís says, handing Sif her sword, and so it is that when she arrives in the receiving rooms off the foyer, she is dressed in all the finery that befits a lady of her station, but with her sword tucked neatly into its sheath at her side, and that is how she must greet their guest.

"Allmother," Sif says, eyes wide, immediately dropping to one knee alongside her uncle, fist over her heart. "We are honored by your presence." 

"Thank you, dear Sif," Frigga says, inclining her head to Svellr to indicate that he may rise, while for Sif, she reaches out a hand, raising her to her feet. "I must apologize for coming unannounced, but I have heard of your troubles, and I believe that they are unfortunately also the Crown's, for such a prominent family cannot experience difficulty of this nature without upsetting the balance of things in the realm." 

"Of course," Svellr says, nodding. 

"I would like to speak with all of you about it-- I believe that the Lady Geirdís has traveled to the city?" 

"Indeed, my queen, she has," Svellr confirms, and Frigga's smile at this news is as warm as the light of the Great Tree. 

It surprises Sif, for though Geirdís has often spoken highly of the Allmother, it has not been in an overly familiar way; yet Frigga's smile is not the reserved, queenly expression she so often turns upon the denizens of the realm, but more like unto the one Sif has only rarely seen her give to her sons. 

"Wonderful," Frigga says. "If you be so good as to summon everyone, then, Lord Svellr, I would be exceedingly grateful." 

"With all deliberate speed, Allmother," Svellr replies, bowing again, but when he motions for Sif to come along, Frigga holds up her hand. 

"My thanks, my Lord. Now, I believe our good Lady Sif may turn my feet in the appropriate way, if she will but walk with me?" 

"Of course, my queen," Sif says, surprised at the invitation, but pleased to be relieved of the burden of more sniping from her family. Svellr looks at them curiously but then takes his leave of them; Sif barely manages not to sigh audibly in relief. 

"That's much better," Frigga says, after Svellr is out of earshot. She beams over at Sif, her smile not quite as sunny as it had been when Svellr spoke of Geirdís, but no less sincere. "Let us give them a moment to assemble themselves before we walk." 

Sif nods and bites her lip. "My queen, I--" 

Frigga waves her hand, dismissing the apology before Sif has a chance to utter it. "Oh, do not apologize, Lady Sif, for the fault, if fault there is, is not your own." 

"Oh. Thank you," Sif says. 

"My sons speak quite highly of you, you know," Frigga continues, and Sif frowns, for she did not, in fact, know this. "And their praise is not easily won. Particularly Loki's, which as I am sure you have noticed is not always as sincere as it seems, though in your case I think it is real enough." 

"I suppose his mother would know the difference," Sif manages to say. 

"I suppose she might," Frigga answers merrily. She gestures toward the innermost parts of the household. "I think we have given them enough time. Shall we?" 

Sif turns to enter the main part of the house, Frigga walking with her stately measured steps beside her, studying Sif's profile as she does. 

"Forgive me for my staring, my dear, but you do look so much like your mother," Frigga says. 

"Thank you, my queen. Lady Geirdís has some of my father's portraits of her," Sif sighs, "but I confess that I do not remember her very well in life. I was not a babe when they went to Valhalla, but I was still young enough for age to have dulled my memories." 

"I am sorry for that, dear. But I knew her well," Frigga says, gently settling her arm through the crook of Sif's elbow as they walk along. "Svellr was her brother and loved her dearly, and I imagine he has told you that have her eyes, but I wager that he has not told you how much you have her proud bearing...or her fighting spirit." 

"My queen?" Sif asks, looking curiously over at Frigga. 

"Hmm. Lady Arnfríðr would never have boasted about it to her younger brother, I'm sure, but she was as lethal with a dagger as any man of the realm," Frigga says, patting Sif's hand as they walk along. She nods down at the sword that Sif wears by her hip. "Or indeed, as her daughter is with a sword." 

Sif falls silent as she considers this new information, turning it over in her head while they walk. Geirdís has told her much about her parents, filling in the gaps where her own youthful memories are insufficient, but she has never mentioned this particular piece of information, and she wonders what else the queen knows of her parents-- or indeed, of her aunt. 

"I am not sorry for my sword, my queen," Sif says at length, just before they reach the room where her family awaits them, "but I am sorry if my deeds with it have caused you trouble of late." 

"It was not your sword alone, my dear, and in any case it has caused us no trouble that we cannot repair, I think," Frigga says easily, and Sif begins to part ways from the queen as they walk through the archway into the hall where they will meet her family, letting her arm fall away from Frigga's. As they separate, she would swear that the Allmother _winks_ at her, though the expression happens so smoothly and swiftly that she cannot trust her own eyes; she is reminded ever so briefly of Loki and his strange quicksilver smile. "Remember, Lady Sif: you are not the only Lady in Asgard ever to cause trouble with a blade." 

Sif wonders at that, and her curiosities only increase as they step into the room, for Geirdís and the queen are obviously much better acquainted than she has ever known them to be, and to everyone's amazement, Geirdís greets the Allmother of the Nine Realms without the slightest deference to her station. 

"Frigga!" Geirdís cries, slapping the table as she stands. "You old pirate, how have you been?" 

From the pallor in her cheeks and the way her hand clutches at her neck, Sif strongly suspects that Lady Spana would have preferred death to hearing the Queen thus greeted in her own home, but Frigga only smiles more brightly and opens her arms to Geirdís. 

"Well now, Dísa," Frigga says, as the two women embrace, "what a predicament we find ourselves in." 

"It would hardly be the first time," Geirdís replies, and Frigga only laughs in response as they all take up seats around the old table, Frigga at its head and the others spilling out around her. Geirdís comes to take up a seat next to her niece, just between Sif and the queen; just before Frigga begins to speak, the two of them exchange a look, and once again, there on Frigga's face is the quickest flash of pure unadulterated mischief.

"Now," Frigga says calmly, as all eyes turn to her, "let us see what we can do to resolve this. Before we begin, Ragneiðr, dear, I want to reassure you that you will not lose your intended over your cousin's actions, which may seem quite rash to you, but in the face of a horde of fire demons, I am certain there are no warriors in all the realm who would not have handled it similarly." 

"Thank you," Ragneiðr says, sniffling only a little in her effort to appear stoic and calm before her queen; Geirdís snorts quietly but says nothing, though Sif takes her meaning perfectly well. Ruling the realm must mean smoothing quite a few ruffled feathers, and neither Sif nor her aunt envy the queen. 

"Of course," Frigga says, smiling her serene smile at Sif's cousin; it lacks warmth, but it placates Ragneiðr, at least. 

"That is good to hear, my queen," Spana says, taking hold of her daughter's hand. "But as I am sure you are aware, we must make some promise to Lord Garðr that this will not transpire again." 

Frigga nods. "Indeed so. Has the Lord _proposed_ any solutions?" 

Geirdís snickers at Frigga's choice of words, but nary a muscle tics in Frigga's carefully composed face. Strangely, though, Geirdís shifts suddenly in her seat, almost as though someone has poked her sharply in the leg; whether by hand or by magic, Frigga has certainly gotten her point across.

Svellr spreads his hands on table, ignoring Geirdís's strange movements. "He suggested that someone of consequence be persuaded to marry the Lady, but my queen, with no disrespect intended to my niece, I know not who that might be. He would have to be of noble birth, that much is certain, and presumably willing to accommodate her desire to be a warrior." 

"Presumably," Sif mutters. Across the table, Nauma gives her what is undoubtedly intended to be an encouraging smile, but it does not seem as genuine as her cousin surely meant for it to be. 

"Do you know of such a man, my queen?" Spana interrupts. "Can such a fool even exist?" 

"Mother--" Aubi begins tiredly, but is immediately silenced by a glare from his mother. 

Svellr gives Sif a moderately apologetic frown. " I understand that Lady Sif wishes to continue her training, but if she does so, she cannot do it under my roof, else the Lord will follow through with this revocation, a shame my daughter has not earned." 

The look with which Geirdís fixes Svellr would have melted steel, and Sif can see that he feels the force of it, for he tugs anxiously at his collar. "Then I shall relocate my household to the city," she snaps, "and I _do_ look forward to attending court with you, my lord." 

Frigga, unperturbed as a becalmed sea, waves her hand, pushing the offer away. "No, no. The crown would not see you leave Vestheimr, Lady Geirdís, for we feel you are stability itself for the western shores." 

"I understand that, _my queen_ , but I will not allow some withered old nobleman from Vanaheim to interfere with my niece's plans for her future," Geirdís insists, rolling her eyes at Spana's sharp intake of breath. "If he had any sense, he'd be thanking the Lady, for I am given to understand that she singlehandedly stopped those villains just before they killed his friends _and_ his foolish third son. I will _not_ sit idly by while the Vanir dictate what Asgardian women do with their lives." 

"Nor will I, Dísa, and surely _you_ can trust that from _me_ ," Frigga says, and surprisingly, that seems to placate Geirdís, who nods and settles back against her chair. 

"So. Lady Sif must remain in the city, and Lady Geirdís must remain in the west, but young Ragneiðr must remain affianced to Gjafvaldr, and that cannot be so without placating her future lord's father." Frigga looks around at the assembly. "Is that where we find ourselves?" 

"Yes," everyone choruses, save Sif, who stares at the middle of the table, almost certain that her future has ended before it has even really begun. 

"Excellent. I believe I may have a solution that will benefit us all equally," Frigga says, fixing Sif with a look she knows all too well, for it is precisely the one she has seen before on Loki's face, just before he suggests something truly outrageous. "Lady Sif, what are your thoughts on marrying my youngest son?"


	2. allegro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sif and Loki discuss the possibility of marriage; Sif comes to a conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _allegro_ :, in music, a brisk or rapid tempo, or movement whose tempo is as such. 
> 
> **Warnings: CANON TYPICAL VIOLENCE**.

The room is an explosion of sound with Sif at the epicenter, the noise of everyone speaking at once revolving around her. Svellr and Geirdís argue, her uncle's hands waving around as though he is casting a complicated spell while her aunt jabs her finger like a spear in Svellr's direction. Meanwhile, Spana and Ranka talk over one another in increasingly frustrated tones, the tidy curls of their hair snapping whiplike back and forth as they share their angry conversation, and even Nauma and Aubi chatter away, sometimes interrupting their father, sometimes their mother and sister. Only the queen is silent, hands folded carefully on the table in front of her. Sif catches her eye, or rather, Frigga catches Sif's; with eyes that are still as wide as a shield, Sif casts her eyes about at her family and then back to the queen. 

"If everyone could see fit to calm down," Frigga says, answering Sif's unspoken request. Without even raising her voice, the queen silences them all, even Geirdís, at least temporarily. Beside Sif, Geirdís shifts in her seat, unable to keep quiet for long. 

"You said this was a mutually beneficial solution, old friend, but how precisely does this benefit you?" Geirdís asks, not that Sif minds overly much: the question had occurred to her as well, albeit through a dim fog of other thoughts, the most prevalent of which had simply been the words _marriage_ and _Loki_. 

If ever two words in her vocabulary had been more strangely juxtaposed, she cannot currently call the occasion to mind. 

"Lady Spana and Lord Svellr are not the only ones with children to worry over, Dísa," Frigga replies, her serene voice the careful, calculated text of a peace treaty. "But I was awaiting your niece's opinion, not yours." 

Suddenly Sif finds that it is entirely too quiet, whereas before it had been too loud; her thoughts had been hard to hear, but now that they have replaced the noise with silence, all that fills her ears are those two words again, endlessly repeated. Under the table, her hand finds the hilt of her sword, and with renewed strength, she begins to speak.

"I...am willing to consider the matter, if it is what my queen wishes," Sif says at last. "Though I would like to at least consult Loki about the...idea," she settles for saying. It is slightly more palatable a word on her tongue than _marriage_. 

"Sensible child," Geirdís says, tapping the table. "She is not the only party to this arrangement. What of your son?" 

"I am certain that _some_ children of noble birth understand their duties regarding marriage," Spana says before Frigga can reply. 

"Indeed so. Loki is perhaps less of a fool than you had hoped, Lady Spana, but I can at least vouch for his nobility," Frigga drawls, and Spana has the grace to continue looking at the floor even after she bows her head to her queen. Sif would find it amusing, were the situation anything other than what it is. "Nevertheless, I do think the Lady Sif raises an important point." 

"Perhaps an outing could be arranged for the two of them," Svellr proposes, and her cousins are quick to take up the refrain, with Aubi interjecting, "I think they both enjoy horseback riding," and Nauma swiftly hastening to add, "The fields near the mountains are lovely now." 

Under the table, Sif grips the hilt of her sword again. She stares up at the ceiling, calling on all her strength as her relatives divide up her life and her time. 

"Someone must supervise them," Spana says crisply. "We've had enough scandal, don't you think?" 

"Then _I_ shall go with them," Geirdís replies, slapping the table. 

"And I," Svellr adds, and when Geirdís glares at him, he only shrugs and continues, "forgive me, Lady, but it is not your daughter's future that hangs in the balance." 

"Is it not?" Geirdís demands. 

"Dísa," Sif sighs, and her aunt shrugs and settles back against her chair. 

"Very well, accompany me, then, Svellr," says Geirdís, waving her hand dismissively. 

"Wonderful," Frigga says, beaming. "Tomorrow morning?" 

Sif nods, but in her heart she wishes for war. Perhaps if battle calls her away to some distant realm, her sword will win the freedom that her family cannot.

\+ + +

Though she is awake with the dawn, Sif does not leave the solitary sanctuary of her bed with her usual spirit or speed. She had hoped, as do most who have recently suffered to hear ill news, that upon waking she would find that yesterday's troubles had all been nothing more than a senseless dream. But across the room sits her riding gear and a soft servant's voice at her chamber door reminds her of her promise to spend her morning with _the prince_ , proof enough that her slumber has not erased the events of the previous day, and she groans and orders her feet to leave the bed and find the floor. Her feet disobey rather wilfully, and she stares at the arches of her ceiling for several long moments before calling to the servant that she is awake, if yet abed.

"Your aunt the Lady Geirdís is already out riding," the servant informs her when Sif bids her enter. She carries a tray of food and settles it near the window. "She wished for you to know that she would meet you in the fields." 

"And my uncle?" Sif asks, peering out at the servant from under half a pillow. 

"Lord Svellr awaits you with some impatience downstairs, my lady," she replies, and at Sif's disgruntled shifting of the pillow, which conveys articulately enough her unspoken question, the servant continues, "the Prince has not yet arrived." 

"What of Vakri?" 

"Your horse is ready when you are, my lady." 

"Very well," Sif sighs, tossing the blankets away and wishing she could slough off her troubles half as easily. 

After picking at her breakfast, Sif turns to snort at the finery that has been laid out for her-- a pretty but impractical gown, completely ill-suited to riding-- and stalks instead to her wardrobe, hastily pulling her hair up and out of her way in its usual ponytail as she surveys her more functional attire. Motivated more by some sense of familial obligation than her usual brand of defiance, she bypasses her worn, functional training leathers for a bright suit of light mail and finely stitched leather trousers. The lady is also a warrior, after all. As she turns from her wardrobe, her hand lingers on the hilt of her sword, fingers twitching with longing to pick it up, duck out of the house, and head not for the green and gold of Asgard's fields but the dusty muted browns of her training yards. Instead, she opts for a discreet dagger or two, tucking one into a boot and the other into a concealed sheath at her hip. Then she sets out to face her day...and Loki. 

Nauma greets her at the top of the stairs, extending her arm to her cousin; Sif takes it willingly enough, and Nauma looks at her cousin's riding attire with a smile. 

"I had wondered if you would wear the dress they laid out for you," Nauma giggles. "Aubi said you might play along, but I doubted." 

"You were right to doubt," Sif says, laughing to ward away her irritation over this whole affair. "I am willing to think on the queen's...proposal, but I must consider it as myself, not as someone else." 

"Of course. Sif...I wanted to thank you before you set out today, for considering the queen's offer," her cousin says softly, her words tumbling out as though they were each of them racing the other to an unseen finish line. "Ranka may never be able to express it properly, but she _is_ grateful. We all are."

It occurs to Sif then that if Ragneiðr's intended marriage does fall through, any hope of easier lives-- or loves-- for her remaining cousins will be extinguished. Ashamed to have been focused only on her own situation, she gives her cousin the most encouraging smile she can summon. 

"I admit it is not the service to my realm I had thought to make," she says frankly, and Nauma squeezes her hand. 

"I am certain it is not," Nauma replies. "Have you given the matter any more thought?" 

"I have no more thoughts to consider before I speak with Loki," Sif says, shrugging. "I cannot speculate as to his opinion." 

"At least he is a friend and not a stranger to you," Nauma says, frowning thoughtfully.

"Yes, I suppose we are friends... of a sort," Sif replies, considering the situation. "Though I am not entirely certain that Loki makes a point of having friends so much as... maintaining a collection of people who entertain him." 

"Hmm. Well, in any case, try to enjoy your morning, cousin," Nauma says, as they reach the bottom of the stairs where Ranka awaits them, her cheeks flushed with sudden rancor. 

"Oh, yes, _do enjoy your day_ with your _prince_ ," Ragneiðr says, arms crossed. "We must all take what we are offered, after all." 

"I thought you were happy with your match," Sif says, bewildered, but instead of making a reply, her cousin turns and marches from the hall. Sif starts after her, determined to have an answer, but Nauma waves her off, kissing her cheek before she goes, pelting down the hall after her sister. 

"What in all the Nine was that?" Sif asks of the empty air, not anticipating an answer and therefore quite startled to receive one. 

"Isn't it obvious? She feels you are rewarded for your poor behavior," comes a voice from the open archway behind her, and she turns to find Loki lounging there, studying the curve of his fingers against his palm as though he had not a care in all the worlds. 

" _Rewarded_?" Sif queries, and he shrugs and looks up at her at last, merry mischief alight in his eyes. As he speaks, he moves away from the arch of the entryway, seeming to grow taller as he unfolds himself from the slight curve of the wall. Though he steps nearer to her with casual footsteps, she does not miss that he is careful to keep his distance, leaving a low table and a pair of chairs between them. 

"Why, Lady Sif, you burnt the flags of her future noble lord and for your insolence you're offered a crown. It's _unfair_. People do tend to get frightfully upset about that sort of thing." 

"I suppose you have some personal experience with the irritated responses of people who feel you are rewarded for poor behavior?" Sif asks, raising an eyebrow. 

"Me? I admit nothing, and indeed, I have nothing to admit," Loki says, and the tone of his voice suggests that he truly has nothing to admit, but the dance of his fingers along the back of the chair in front of him tell a different story entirely. 

"I am sure you do not," she says, but she shakes her head as she says it, for she is sure of very little when it comes to him. Not for the first time since she returned to the city, she finds herself making a study of him, a curious contrast to his brother. 

Thor she knows well, for many are the times they have met in the yards, and much joy have they both taken in besting one another and boasting of their victories. Loki, though... Loki she knows far less of. She feels that she knows marginally more of him than most of the realm, for indeed he keeps his own counsel much of the time, and even in the midst of a great throng of people he is like an island, visible to many but visited only by a few. His mother knows him best, no doubt, and thereafter his brother, though there have been many times at a banquet or celebration that she has watched shadows cross his face while they sang and toasted Thor, and they are shadows of a similar sort to those she knows must make their dreary way across her own face in the yards on the days when some insolent youngling is held in higher esteem than she for his manly valor.

Yet somewhere underneath the jealousy, Sif suspects there is also a strange sort of loyalty, for as often and as viciously as she has seen them argue with one another-- Loki, she suspects, is more frequently the instigator of all those altercations, though Thor causes his fair share-- if ever in battle the other was threatened, the villains who dogged them would soon be made to regret it. In her first outing with them, barely a few months into her time in the city, they had all of them been overtaken unexpectedly by a fearsome band of helhounds. Loki and Fandral were late to join their hunting party, and though Fandral's swift rapier helped Volstagg and Hogun beat back the ugly horde alongside Sif, it was Loki alone who took on the beasts that swarmed over his brother, and with a savage brutal grace he slew them all. That Thor had barely cheated death did not concern Loki thereafter, however, for Loki sniped at his brother with neither grace nor charity for the remainder of their adventuring that day. 

No one will harm Thor save Loki, in Loki's estimation, apparently. 

Regarding him now, she can hardly make sense of the careful creature before her when she recalls that fight, the way he bared his teeth, blood on his face and neck and hands as his daggers sliced through fur and hide. Her heart beats faster than it should for someone who is only standing still, and she considers that if her own somewhat frightful visage upon returning from battles is any indication, then perhaps they are not as ill-matched as she had initially thought. 

"I don't blame her, really," Loki says, interrupting her thoughts. "I _am_ something of a prize." 

"Of course," she says, rolling her eyes. "Then again, I suppose anyone's better than some halfwitted weakling. Poor Ranka." 

"Hmm. Thor and I took note of your cousin's noble intended after you were done with the fire demons," Loki says. "Poor boy was practically in tears. I imagine your cousin will have the run of the household; she need not fret over her future." 

"Hmmph," Sif snorts. She raises an eyebrow at him, recalling the look on his face after yesterday's incident. "But I thought you disagreed with my handling of the situation, my lord." 

"It was... _inelegant_ ," he says, once again walking his fingers over the back of the chair in front of him, following them with his eyes until he reaches the edge of the chair and looks back up at her, green eyes glinting in the light. "But amusing." 

"How delightful, for it is my only goal in life to amuse your lordship," Sif replies, stepping closer to the chairs and to him along with them. She is somewhat surprised to find that it feels not unlike stepping closer to danger during battle; she is not at all surprised that given this strange reaction, she finds that she enjoys it. 

"You succeed more often than you fail," he drawls, leaning over the chair. Once more she considers her memories of him on the battlefield, and thinks that perhaps she would prefer a day in the yards with him over a morning of horseback riding. He rarely graces them with his presence there; the other warriors are as suspicious of his magic as they are of her womanhood. But it is their yard as much as it is anyone's, and why should they fear to be who they are? 

The request is on the tip of her tongue when suddenly he straightens, hands behind his back, all traces of congeniality gone from his face. In its place she finds only imperious hauteur. 

Confused, Sif turns to find her uncle sweeping into the room, no doubt come to chastise her for not awaiting his arrival before speaking with Loki alone. But her suspicions die quietly soon after Svellr notices Loki, for her uncle stops abruptly and bows low, hand over his heart. 

"Your Highness," Svellr intones. 

"Lord Svellr," Loki replies, and something in his voice makes Sif straighten. Gone is the peer with whom she had been bantering; in his place stands, unquestionably, a man of royal birth and bearing, a prince of the realm to whom she owes her allegiance. How she has forgotten this about him, she is not entirely certain: with Thor, his eventual future as her king is never far from her mind, for all that is much more friendly with her and the others than Loki ever is. Standing here now, she wonders how often she has let it slip her mind that the man before her is no less of noble birth. How often has she been lured into complacency by the charming air of familiarity he affects? 

"Our horses await us in the courtyard," Svellr says, bowing again as he gestures. 

"Then we shall be along shortly, thank you," Loki says. Sif halfway expects him to wave his hand in dismissal, but his voice is clearly dismissal enough, and Svellr inclines his head and turns to go. Before he exits the room, he raises an eyebrow at Sif, who stares curiously back at him until at last he shakes his head and bows to Loki again and takes his leave. 

"I think he wanted you to bow along with him," Loki murmurs after Svellr has gone. Once more his demeanor is familiar, friendly, all his royal bearing gone in a flash. He smirks at her. "How very disappointing that you didn't." 

"Oh, I will give you a bow, _my lord_ ," she returns, surprised at how easily she, too, slips back into their easy, informal repartee, "when you win it from me in the yards." 

"Is that a challenge?" 

"Or an invitation," she shrugs. "Take it as you will, my lord."

\+ + +

In the courtyard, their horses stand ready, Mjǫll's flanks gleaming in the light as Loki strides over to her. She is a fitting horse for him, Sif thinks: temperamental, haughty, and swift. Beside her, Vakri's ears twitch, and he stamps his foot, impatient.

"Patience, old friend, we'll go soon. I hope for your sake you'll like Mjǫll today, but perhaps not too much this time, all right?," she sighs, patting Vakri's flank. She has always felt Vakri was mostly even-tempered; he has borne her through battles without a hint of bad temper, but next to Mjǫll he is by turns exceedingly irritable and overtly affectionate. Vakri snorts and flicks his tail, and she sighs again as she mounts up. "Let us just both aim for civility, and perhaps we'll get through this together." 

Across the courtyard, Loki gestures to Svellr. "Please, do lead the way," he says, and Svellr, with one more deferential bow from bestride his own mount, exits the yard. 

"They'll bow to you too, you know, if we agree to go along with Mother's outrageous little scheme," Loki says conversationally at her side as they follow Svellr through the city towards the fields. 

"Obsequiousness isn't anything that interests me," Sif says, rolling her eyes again, something she finds she does more often than not in his presence. 

"Really? You could bid them do any manner of services for you on any number of distant realms, and they would be obliged to comply," he points out. "That isn't even moderately tempting?" 

"Were I you and not myself, my lord, I suppose it might be," she says, shrugging. Vakri whinnies, and she pats him. "A pity that I am who I am." 

"If there is anything pitiable about you, lady, I could not name it," Loki says, and she studies his face in profile intently, but she can find no evidence of the dishonesty she suspects lurks there. 

"Well, one of you is enough for all the Nine Realms, surely," she tosses back, and they say little for a while thereafter. 

The buildings of the city grow smaller and sparser as they ride towards the plains, trading the sights of the city for the fragrant scents of the fields, and eventually, the familiar sight of her aunt riding up to meet them. After a few pleasantries are exchanged and a few parameters are set-- "We will follow you at a respectful distance, but we must keep you in our sights," Svellr reminds them, eliciting thinly veiled disdain from Sif and Loki and open disgust from Geirdís-- they ride on. The horses bear them through the fields of waving grass and brightly blooming flowers while they converse quietly with one another, Sif and Loki riding ahead, Geirdís and Svellr a few paces behind. Unwilling to extend this charade for the entire morning, Sif makes every effort to steer the conversation towards Frigga's outlandish proposal, but each time they dance closer to the subject it seems that Svellr encroaches nearer to them. If she must contemplate marriage, she feels that her uncle could at least allow her the dignity to pretend that she has had a hand in the decision, but he is apparently too thick to understand this for himself. 

"They are still following us," she complains to Loki after her fifth aborted attempt to pursue some manner of matrimonial conversation in relative privacy. She grips Vakri's reins tighter, and Vakri, sensing his master's ill mood, stamps at the ground with one heavy forefoot until Mjǫll snorts her disapproval. "I don't know what manner of trouble they think we'll get up to that we haven't already accomplished." 

" _I_ don't recall being in any trouble whatsoever," he says, and at her look of utter disbelief, he adds, without a hint of contrition, "recently." 

"It was hardly a week ago that you returned from Alfheim with Thor and that truly curious magical malady that followed you both," she reminds him. "Half the yard was out with it." 

"That wasn't any sort of trouble for _me_ ," he says, and she laughs. 

Surveying the flat plain of the field before them, Sif looks from Vakri to Mjǫll and then over at Loki, who lifts his eyebrows ever so slightly, clearly certain of what she is about to suggest. "I wonder if we could outrun them." 

"I believe I can help with that," Loki says, and though he does not elaborate, he does subtly direct Mjǫll slightly to the right of their current course. 

Sif directs Vakri to follow, but when it becomes clear that Loki is not planning to elaborate, she clears her throat and looks over at him. "Would you like to explain how?" 

"Don't you trust me, Lady Sif?" 

"I suppose we shall see, my lord," she says, and with no warning whatsoever, Mjǫll is off in a burst of speed, Loki's laughter trailing behind, and Sif is left alone with Vakri to decide whether or not to follow. For his part, Loki does not even look back, and without much hesitation, Sif bares her teeth in a wild grin and urges Vakri to make haste. At her back, there is a distant echo of her uncle's startled cry and her aunt's loud bark of laughter; she exhales a laugh of her own into the wind as she and Vakri hasten on. Mjǫll never slows her steps, but Vakri is fleet of foot and Sif knows these fields well. Up ahead, Mjǫll's snow-white tail whips left as Loki directs her to the right, and Sif smiles victoriously as she sends Vakri through some brush and up a dry creekbed, knowing that this path will allow them to gain ground. When their shortcut ends, Vakri trails behind Mjǫll's glistening flanks by only a few paces, and in the space of another heartbeat they ride side by side once more. 

"Took you long enough," Loki says, grinning over at her. 

"We took the scenic route," Sif tells him, tugging a tangle of leaves from her long hair and tossing it behind her. "Where are we going?" 

"Do you really think I'll tell you?" he laughs. "Come, lady, surely you know me better than _that_." 

They race onward until they have left the fields entirely and entered the foothills of the mountains that surround the golden capital city. Unexpected rainclouds roll in over their heads, painting the bright summer sky grey and infusing the fresh scent of the grass and the flowers with a faint trace of petrichor that promises to grow stronger as they ride on under the clouds. As the mountains loom taller in front of them, Sif turns her head to search for their chaperones, but there is nothing behind her save the ground they have covered. She smiles to herself; her aunt is a fine rider, and they will not have lost her unless she allowed them to do so. As she considers the argument her aunt is no doubt presently having with her uncle, her smile grows broader still, and this despite the rain that begins to fall. 

"We've lost them," she calls to Loki, a few steps ahead, but he does not slow his pace even when they round a sharp corner and the trail ahead drops away, revealing nothing but the menacing rocky chasm of a cliff. Loki rides toward it without hesitation, urging Mjǫll onward toward the gap. If either of them know fear, they do not show it; if Sif's heart beats faster at the sight of the unbridled abandon on his face, she comforts herself with the thought that it is surely only the rush of the wind in her ears and the thrill of the race they have run. 

Her aunt's voice in her head urges her to be a bit more sensible, as the look on Loki's face could just as easily be described as _unhinged_ ; she shoves the thought away and focuses on the task at hand. Quickly, she eyes the width of the cliff. Their mounts are swift and strong, but even horses as fine as these could not make a jump like that, yet Loki races toward it, undaunted. 

"You are completely mad," she shouts, and inwardly curses the shade of reverence she hears in her own voice, for this whole exercise, quite from giving her pause about this marriage, has thus far only served to make her think it might not be such a terrible decision after all. 

"Possibly! Still trust me?" he calls. 

"Apparently!" she shouts back, and despite her misgivings she will not urge Vakri to slow his steps. She has made her decision; she will rush toward it at full speed. She bends to speak softly and quickly to Vakri, hoping he will trust her judgment. 

When they reach the cliff's edge, she is rather immediately rewarded for her valor: instead of the terrifying exhilaration of the jump, there is only solid ground and a strange light that bends around them. Gone is the cliff, replaced by a thicket, verdant and vivid. When Vakri's steps slow enough for her to take in her surroundings, she sees that the trees here are old. In her own youth and Loki's, they would already have been tall and strong. A stream winds through the trees ahead, crackling over branches and stones in its bed; by the time she has finished looking about, Loki has sent Mjǫll on to the water, and waits for her by a small group of younger trees on the stream bank. 

"Well, that was thrilling," she says, and sincerely so, for her heart pounds pleasantly in her chest as she dismounts and lets Vakri trot along to stand by Mjǫll at the water's edge. Sif, curious, walks in the opposite direction, back towards the place where they entered this hidden glade. When she reaches the point where the path stretches out in front of her, yet the ground bears no sign of disturbance from their horses' hooves, she stops, reaching her hand out to the false projection that hides them from view. 

"I wouldn't touch that," Loki calls, just as her palm nears the image. 

"Oh?" she asks, turning to look over her shoulder, palm still up towards the barrier. "Will it give us away if I touch it?" 

"No," he says slowly, a smirk spreading across his face as as he draws out the word. "But it might give you a nasty shock." 

"I will add it to the growing list of similar shocks I've had of late," she drawls, and pushes her palm forward regardless of his valediction. When nothing happens, she turns back to him, shaking her head as he chuckles.

"Well, I did say it _might_ give you a shock," he says. 

"Hmmph," she grumbles, making her way back towards him and the horses. "Is this your magic? Or Asgard's?" 

"Can it not be both?" 

"It can, but I would have thought you would take credit for it regardless," she says, settling herself next to him on the grassy banks of the stream. "I was also unaware that you possessed this level of skill." 

"I think I should be offended, but you sound suitably awed," he says, and she kicks at his leg. "Careful now, Lady Sif, you're not a princess as yet: mind how you treat your betters." 

It is such a good impersonation of her aunt Spana that her amusement is entirely secondary to her irritation. 

"Oh, that incompetent beetle-witted daughter of a sow," she swears, angrily plucking at the leaves of the vegetation that grows around them. 

"Please, do tell me how you really feel," he drawls, and it is not a sincere offer, but she takes him up on it nevertheless: if they are to agree to this, he may as well know her thoughts. 

"I _loathe_ the entire idea that _marriage_ is all I need to _settle down_ and be a _lady_. Am I not already a lady?" she says, somewhat in jest, for as she says it she flops gracelessly onto her back, legs spread out towards the stream in a manner _most_ unbecoming of a woman of her station. Loki gazes down at her, amused, and when she glares with moderately murderous intent up at him, he distracts her attention by making magical ice figures of various persons of note out of the cold stream water. After he constructs-- and destroys-- surprisingly accurate and detailed caricatures of her cousin's affianced lord and his feckless sire, she finally snorts out a laugh, and he abandons his creative pursuits as she begins to speak again. "I am sorry that _you've_ gotten embroiled in all of it, anyway. There are no doubt better matches for you than me elsewhere in the cosmos, and I wouldn't even consider it, you understand, but my cousins are depending on me...and despite all the trouble it's caused everyone, I do still want to continue my training." 

He peers over at her. " _Despite_ the trouble? Or _because_ of it?" 

"If they had agreed outright that I was a fine candidate for a warrior, then I shouldn't have caused anyone any trouble save my enemies in battle, and I would have been perfectly happy to do so. However, since they did not..." She smiles over at him. "I do not deny that proving them wrong has been something of a pleasurable experience." 

Before them, the horses lap quietly at the cool water; above them, rain falls on the canopy of leaves over their heads. Tiny droplets fall from the trees above, spattering against an unseen spellwork shield just before they reach the top of her head.

"You?" she asks, and he shrugs. 

"It is a terribly simple spell," he explains. 

"If only there were such a thing for my current predicament," she laments. 

"Have you not been offered one?" 

"I don't know that I'd call it easy," she mutters, and he laughs. "Enough. What do you think of this...arrangement?" 

"You're not terrible," he says after a long moment, and she snorts again, so loudly that the horses turn to look at her. 

"Thank you for that ringing endorsement, your majesty." 

"You're welcome," he says, and this time when she kicks at him, she makes sure to land the blow.

"Hmm. I would say that I was merely doing _my friend_ a favor, but then, I don't suppose I make the point of having friends," he drawls. "Though rest assured, Lady Sif, you are _very_ amusing to me." 

Her cheeks redden with embarrassment, but she meets his eyes regardless. "I did not know you overheard me speaking with my cousin this morning." 

"I overhear a lot of things," he says, and his tone is as light as the magic they rode through to get here, yet she suspects that it is also as false as the cliff that masks this place. He is quiet for a moment, returning his attention to the water and his spellwork; this time there are no caricatures, only a tower of overlapping strands of frozen water that grows higher and higher as his twitching fingers direct it to do so. It occurs to her then that she has actually managed to do him some sort of injury, and that she is surprised to find that she cares that she has done it. Though Sif doubts not for a second that her remarks to her cousin concerning Loki and his largely solitary existence were mostly accurate, she knows for herself that forging a new path can make for difficult lives in Asgard, and lonely lives at that. 

When she had arrived once more in the capital after a lifetime away in the west, she had written her aunt more than one letter upon this theme of loneliness. She missed her friends and her home, for the capital city _is_ Asgard, the very heart of it, yet not entirely the one her own heart has longed to serve for so many years. For a long while she felt that though the realm united them all, the city might as well be its own realm, so different was the culture here from Vestheimr. There, hardly anyone would blink at the sight of a lady with a sword, even one of noble birth; here, the young women she played games with as a child now scurry to leave banquet tables when she enters noble halls, and even in the taverns those without titles look at her askance unless she is with Thor or Loki or the others. She hoped in vain that might find friendship in her fellow fighters, but that well of hope quickly ran dry, and she toiled alone for a solid month before anyone would deign to cross blades with her. 

Geirdís had, of course, plenty to say on the subject of Sif's displeasure with her new surroundings. 

_Why do they despise me so?_ she asked her aunt, sighing into the warm night air that crept into her uncle's household from the balconies, fragrant with flowers instead of stinging with the salt and gases from the starseas. Her aunt's reply scrolled across the air in front of her, quick and incisive like a knife point.

> _It is not your talent that troubles them-- though I do not doubt their jealousies in that regard-- rather, it is what that talent represents. Some of them are simple enough, they think if one woman is a warrior then soon more will follow, and those of that ilk will squawk as old crows do because our traditions are old and they do not wish them to change. But there are others, the worst of your detractors, whose fear runs far deeper, for at some point they must have understood that it is not their world that has changed, but rather that they have failed to look at the world that is and see what is really in it. We have always had this strength, the women of this realm. They have not seen it. Perhaps they have not wished to. But you have showed it to them, and they cannot ignore it. And if they have been so wrong, so myopic, for so many centuries, if they have missed the capabilities of their wives, sisters, daughters, nieces, and queens, then what else of the world is not as they think it is? A sobering thought to be certain, but for a warrior to doubt the very shape and pattern of his world it must be doubly so, for if they cannot see what strength is plainly in front of them, how can they hope to do their duty? It must be terrifying for them._
> 
> __Let it be._ _
> 
> _Be unapologetically terrifying, ástin mín. They are warriors, after all: I think it is they and not you who must learn to be braver._

She remembers all of this while next to her, the water in the stream grows ever higher at her companion's command. Sif watches it now with a bit more sympathy in her heart. Male mages are not nearly so unheard of as lady warriors-- the Allfather himself is no stranger to incantations-- yet here they are, islands standing in a lonely sea. They are alike in that, at least. It is not enough common ground on which to build a marriage-- but it might be enough for a friendship. Surely that is a start.

"Loki," she begins to say, but then the tower collapses into water once more, forestalling her attempted overtures of friendship. 

"For example," he continues, affecting a very bored tone, "I am certain I overheard that Tyr is impressed enough with your efforts that he is considering asking you to be his pupil." 

"What?!" If this is meant to be a distraction, it has worked: she no longer cares about unraveling the mystery of the man sitting next to her. She sits up straighter, twisting toward him, her hands darting over to grip him securely by the shoulders lest he try to wriggle away under some spell. "How did you come by this information? What was said? When did all of this transpire? Tell me everything! Immediately." 

"And what would I get out of that arrangement?" he laughs. 

"A _friend_ ," she says, returning to their earlier theme, "and an escape from my wrath." 

Still, no matter how she entreats or cajoles, he refuses to elaborate, and eventually she abandons her efforts, declaring him to be a liar who has fabricated the entire story. 

"You are free to believe what you wish," he repeats, shrugging. She shoves at him with her shoulder; he shoves back. They leave the subject behind them, and she continues her questioning, for he has inadvertently raised a question that has been plaguing her. If he will not elaborate about Tyr, he will at least answer her this. 

"This has all reminded me: what would _you_ get out of this arrangement?" she says, suspicion coloring her voice as she waves her hands between them. . 

"I was wondering when you might ask me that," he says, and this time it is he who leans back against the mossy bank while she stares down at him. No answers seem immediately forthcoming, for instead of elaborating, he occupies himself by tossing a small rock up in the air, catching it with fingers that pinch together around the stone like claws. Up goes the rock, then down, then up; it makes seven such circuits before she clears her throat and kicks his foot. 

"Well?" 

The rock lies still in the palm of his hand. It waits, as does she, for a reply. 

"I think," he says at length, "that there is more to the cosmos than we have recorded here in Asgard, Sif. All of our libraries, all of our knowledge-- I have read it, and I am _bored_. There are worlds elsewhere and I want to know them, and you have lived on their edges and heard their stories. It interests me." 

"You want adventure?" she asks, skepticism leaving her voice as flat as the stone that sits in his palm. . 

"I want _knowledge_ ," he corrects. 

She dangles her fingers in the cool water, reflecting on her girlhood at her father's home, of long ago late night tales of faraway realms and ancient books with sketches of unknown creatures. If this is the knowledge he seeks, she knows it exists-- all those worlds to conquer, treasures to gain.

"Knowledge. A powerful thing to be sure," she replies. 

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." The rock resumes its upward path between his fingers and back, until, on its third journey into the air, she reaches over quick as lightning and snatches it from its zenith. 

"Whatever keeps you in peaceful slumber every evening, my lord," she drawls, shaking the stone at him. 

"A good many things do that, my lady," he parries, looking over at her with an interest that has little to do with knowledge. She looks back unashamedly with something approaching the same, and if the air feels strange suddenly, she tells herself that the storm overhead must have worsened, blocked from sight by the magic that surrounds them. It cannot be anything else; this marriage, if it happens, is not born of attraction but necessity, after all. 

She clears her throat. "And do you expect those things from me?" 

"Oh, I don't need to marry for that," he drawls. "As I am sure you do not, either." 

"Indeed not, and while we are playing on this theme, I remind you that I am not a lady for house and home," she tells him. "I do not cook or clean or mend things, and my experience with children is that I do not wish to experience them further." 

"Nor do I, so I hardly think that will be an _issue_ ," he jokes, and she punches his arm without thinking, but he only laughs it off. 

This discussion of heirs stirs something in her memories and transports her from this grassy bank to the shores of the west, where as a girl her tutor kept her inside for several tortuous hours each day, teaching a younger Sif the laws of the realm that invisibly governed her life. 

"Asgard's system of inheritance is unique in the Nine Realms," she would recite in a funereal monotone, bored half to death and longing to be exploring the docks in instead of sitting indoors with her tutor, a hawk-nosed withered old didact named Fróði who refused to allow his young pupil to make use of any technology save the ancient screens that she still had to touch to activate. With extraordinary effort, she would force herself to remain calmly polite as she pointed toward more recent technologies. "Can't I just--" 

"No you may not," Fróði would say, and then request that she recount the realm's various regional governors, beginning with the young princes before moving on to her own family. In the past, a younger Sif dutifully if grudgingly begins to list principalities; in the present, an older and savvier Sif questions the motives of her potential betrothed while he uses his magic to make waves in the stream water. 

She clears her throat. "At what point, my lord, did you consider that this marriage would give you the right to my inheritance in Vestheimr and nominal authority over all the territory that comes with it?" 

"Would it do that really," he says, and at her raised eyebrows, he raises his hands; a spellwork picture of Asgard and all her territory appears above their heads. 

Sif points at a small region south of the capital, then over at her companion. "It would and you know it. So, Prince Loki, Jarl of Skornheimr, that's half the realm for you and only, hmm, a fourth for Thor, isn't it?" 

"Who's counting," he says, lowering his hands slowly. 

"Who indeed," she drawls. 

"Now, Sif, the king still rules the realm," he reminds her. He quirks a finger lazily, and the diagram spins about, the various regions of the realm separating out to float apart from one another. 

"I have no need of a primogeniture lecture," she groans. "My aunt holds our estate at Vestheimr because my father had no brothers and my aunt has no husband and no male heirs. It is only through Dísa's fortitude and special dispensation from the Allfather that Svellr is forbidden to stand in as Greve over the west until I am married, and I do imagine that if I am to marry _you_ , that dispensation will end, unless we both agree that it shall not." 

The map of the realm slowly fades into oblivion as he looks at her. "You really are extraordinarily aware of the intricacies of the law." 

"Please. I had to learn all of that nonsense, the very same as you. The warrior is still a lady," she says drily, and this time there is absolutely no mistaking the charge in the air when he looks from the top of her head to the tip of her boots and back. 

"Yes," he says, " _I know_." 

"You still have not answered my question," she says, pressing her question upon him in an effort to distance herself from the pleasurable sensation creeping through the veins in her abdomen. She's never looked at him as a potential lover; still, if he keeps looking at her like that, she may reconsider, inheritance laws be damned. "How much has my inheritance motivated you to acquiesce to your mother's...proposal?" 

"The thought had crossed my mind," he admits finally, his words slow and sluggish, a quality they owe to the reluctance of his confession. "I had actually thought it might be something of a relief for you." 

She can't help it, she laughs, long and loud. "Oh, I see. You're just my _friend_ , doing me another favor, are you?" 

"Out of the goodness of my heart," he says, pressing his hand over the part of his chest that contains this supposedly altruistic organ. 

"Please," she snorts, and they fall silent for a time. She takes the opportunity to pull her dagger from her boot, looking it over with a critical eye. "You know," she says, idly turning the blade over and over in her hand, "this isn't a small point of consideration, Loki. If the west isn't properly governed and trade with the rest of the galaxy is disrupted, there could be disastrous consequences for the realms under Asgard's protection." 

"Of course I know that," he says dismissively. "But Sif, do you actually _want_ control over the western shores?" 

"Control!" she laughs. "No one _controls_ the west if they need say that they do so! The merchants and the pirates are far too independently minded for that. Control. Listen to you. I thought you were the consummate diplomat, Loki." 

"I would surely do better than Thor," he grouses. 

"Perhaps. But regardless, they wouldn't care overly much for either one of you in the west," she points out. "There's a reason Vestheimr has remained a _greveskab_ under my family's care since the days before King Borr, and it is not only the time that we have ruled that place that led your grandfather to keep us there. The starfarers don't particularly care for your family, and the pirates, well. They don't like you _at all_." 

"We've not been to war in centuries," he scoffs. "And even if we had, the starfarers and the merchant nobility like your family can still turn a profit during wartime. It's well past time they stopped complaining about that." 

"They can't run their trade routes if their ships are boarded by pirates," she reminds him. "And what of the pirates? How will you govern them, if I marry you and you do eventually assume _control_ of that region?" 

"Oh, I'm sure we can find _uses_ for them. Crown-sponsored piracy might be useful if it were to be discreet, for example." 

She rears back in surprise. "That's halfway to treason, you know. And the merchants?" 

"What of them? I believe I mentioned that discretion was necessary," he shrugs. "As to your other outlandish accusation, it isn't treason...if you're a prince, at any rate. Surely the pirates can appreciate my sense of fun, don't you think?" 

"I am more concerned with other realms' appreciation of same when their traders are raided and they learn that we encouraged it," she says, raising an eyebrow. 

"Discretion," he says again, holding up a finger. "Possibly backed up by blackmail, if it's possible to blackmail a pirate. Or we'll wipe them out and be done with it." 

"You know I love a good war, but that kind of threat would be extremely ill-advised." 

"Easy enough to make it look like a raid from elsewhere, but very well," he says, waving his hand and recalling the map of the realm. "What would you do in my place, Grevinde Lady Sif?" 

"Well, for a start, I would petition the Allfather to dispense with this ridiculous system of inheritance that favors men above all else," she says, stabbing at the capital on the map with the point of her dagger. He does actually smile at that. "Beyond that, I would do what my family has done for centuries: advise, not dictate. We exercise our authority sparingly and always have. They need to feel they have chosen to follow the king's orders, and we tend to encourage that." 

"Careful, Lady, you're dancing precariously close to that treason you were so worried over a moment ago," he tuts.

"It's a delicate balance," she says, rolling her eyes. "And one best maintained by someone other than the crown. I believe the Allfather understands that, or the queen would not have requested my aunt remain in the west." 

"I was unaware that you understood so much of statecraft," Loki says. 

"Oh, make no mistake, my lord, I am as subtle as the sword I carry," Sif says, shaking her dagger at him, "but every good sword has its fine point, does it not? I am not a blunt instrument, Loki." 

"So I am beginning to see," he says slowly. 

She tucks her dagger back into her boot. "And now that you do, my lord, will you tell me what it is that you really _want_?" 

Loki sits up slowly as the maps in front of them fade once more. "I want what you want, Lady," he says, his voice rough around the edges and strangely lacking its usual velveteen softness. "I want to be who I am." 

His reply answers nothing. Indeed, it only raises still more questions; chief among them, of course, is, _and who might that be_ , but she does not ask, not now. There is, she supposes, time to discover that. 

"I suppose we should come to a decision," she says. 

"I already informed Mother that I was amenable if you were, so I regret to inform you that it is your decision," he tells her. His voice, she notes, has found its normal melodic quality once more. "Though Mother did counsel me that you had best let her know straight away. I think she's already planning the ceremony." 

"Oh stars," Sif sighs, suddenly overwhelmed. Marriage is one thing; a wedding is entirely another. Gowns. Oaths. Crowds of people from all over the realm and a few more besides. Banquets. Dignitaries, including, no doubt, Ranka's wretched future father-in-law, author of her current discontent. 

At least Loki will probably have more than a few ideas on how to entertain the both of them during all of these wretched events. She begins to say as much aloud, but then she reconsiders, deciding he will only take it as further invitation to leer at her; she isn't entirely opposed to the idea, but they have been gone too long already. 

"I will continue my training without quarrel from you," she stipulates. "My aunt will remain in control in Vestheimr for the present, and there will under no circumstances be any children from this marriage." If he wonders that she did not include sex in her list of prohibitions, he doesn't remark upon it, though she quietly ponders it briefly herself while she awaits his reply.

"Agreed on all counts," he says. She scrutinizes his face carefully, but he seems every bit as determined to avoid the trials and tribulations of progeny, so she carries on with her inquisition.

"And you will not attempt to wrest my inheritance from me in the future?" 

"Not for all the gems in Svartalfaheim," he promises. At her skeptical look, he adds, "I'll put it in writing if you like. Though if you find you need an advisor in a few centuries..." 

"If I need someone to whisper terrible ideas in my ear, I will keep you in mind," she jokes. "And this prohibition on ruling Vestheimr, does it not give you pause?" 

"I suppose not. I wasn't lying earlier when I said I wanted knowledge of the rest of the cosmos, Sif." 

"I see. You were just omitting a substantial portion of the truth." 

He shrugs. "If that practice troubles you, Lady, I think you already know what your answer should be." 

"Indeed," she says, standing and brushing the grass from her leathers. "We should endeavour to find our chaperones."

"Very well," he agrees, getting to his feet alongside her. "Have you come to a decision?" 

"No," she sighs, frowning. She knows what she should say, but she cannot yet bring herself to say it. "But also yes. Tell your mother that I will have an answer for her tomorrow." 

He watches her carefully as they walk back to their horses. "Very well," he says.

\+ + + 

Thanks largely to Loki's knowledge of the forest around the mountains, they are able to ride back to the city unaccompanied by their chaperones, and so she is able to escape her uncle's scolding for the afternoon. She makes for the yards, where she spends a mostly productive afternoon observing Tyr and some of his former pupils, contemplating Loki's teasing words to her all the while.

She returns home in the early evening to find that the household is curiously deserted; the servants inform her that Geirdís is meeting with old friends in the city while the remainder of her family has been invited to dine with Ranka's betrothed. They will be staying in Vanaheim for the evening, leaving her in peace to contemplate her day. Sif can only imagine the assurances that Svellr and Spana are already making to Lord Garðr about her future, regardless of the fact that she has not agreed to marry, but she pushes aside her irritation and embraces the quietude of the empty house. In lieu of wine, she bids them bring her beer; she enjoys the taste of it only half as much as she enjoys this unexpected freedom from the judgment of her relatives. That Loki has never once commented upon her decision to imbibe ale in a manner not unlike that of the Warriors Three is another mark in his favor, she muses, and she smiles to herself and requests an extra flagon. 

When she arrives at her chambers after this mercifully solitary dinner, a letter awaits her. Curious, she bends to collect it, fingers sliding over the smoothness of the fine, rich paper. When she lifts it from the low table, the air underneath it shimmers and dissolves, leaving in its wake a silver dagger. Her fingers curl around its hilt, the letter in her other hand entirely forgotten as Frigga's soft voice begins to warm the air around her. 

"This weapon was your mother's," Frigga's voice informs her. "It has been too long in my care. Use it in good health, daughter." 

Sif stands still and alone for a long while, studying the blade and the carvings on its hilt as she tries to reconcile scattered memories of her proper, stately mother with the weapon in her hand. Many are the times she has sat at a long banquet, immaculately bedecked in court finery with a blade tucked securely and secretly against her thigh, dreaming of battle and glory while the other nobles talk of children and art. Did her mother once do the same? Gripping the dagger tighter in her hand as though the force of her will can answer her question, she interrogates her memories, seeking clues in strange places: the way her mother moved, the distracting rustle of her skirts against the floor. Did their noise hide a stealthy lethal grace? Did her valiant father, child of warriors from time immemorial, find in her mother an unexpected kindred, or did he seek her out because he already knew of some hidden reserve of courage, of valor? 

The wind outside stirs the still air of her chambers, pushing her hair against her shoulders; the weight of it reminds her of the afternoon that her mother caught her running like a wild thing down the corridors with her long hair trailing after her, so intent on playing war games with the princes that she had not seen her mother appear in hallway. 

"Where do you go in such haste, child?" Lady Arnfríðr asked, her voice as soft as the clouds of fabric she floated in. 

"The palace," Sif said, respectful and prompt in her reply, even as she kept the purpose of her excursion to herself. 

"You should be careful," her mother cautioned, frowning and beckoning to her daughter. When Sif stepped closer, her mother turned her about and with deft hands pulled Sif's long hair up and away from her face, securing it with care before releasing Sif once more. 

"Perhaps you will find that more suitable," her mother said, and as an adult, Sif finds that her mother's smile in her memory takes on a sly quality that she had not noticed as a child. Then, she had imagined herself victorious, having successfully escaped without being scolded for her choice of children's games. Now she rides into battle with her hair pulled back just as her mother showed her, all those years ago, and it gives her pause. 

"What did you want for me, Mother? Who were you?" Sif sighs to the empty air. No answers are forthcoming, of course, and her own memories hardly seem trustworthy, so she resolves to act as she always does in these rare moments of uncertainty. The letter falls forgotten to the floor as she goes to seek out Geirdís, glad that for the present, at least, her most trusted advisor is but a corridor away. 

But tonight her advisor is nowhere to be found, for though the elegantly appointed guest chambers do hold her aunt's belongings, they do not presently hold her aunt. She lingers for a few minutes, hoping in vain for her aunt's return; unbidden, more memories surface as she stands waiting. Long ago, this room held weapons. As a girl she had thought them to be her father's, but as she wanders these chambers, her left hand drifting over the panel that used to open cases of knives and daggers while in her right she clutches her mother's blade, she reconsiders. She could swear on her life that the dagger in her hand had been part of that collection; once more she wishes that her aunt had been here. 

Briefly, Sif considers contacting Svellr on Vanaheim in order to question him, but he has never referred to his sister as anything other that the most proper of Asgardian ladies, and in light of recent events she doubts that he would divulge any information to the contrary. It might only serve to further encourage Sif's reprehensible behaviour, after all. Irritated, she lets out a particularly vehement string of curses, making a passing servant jump and grab at his chest in fear.

"Are you in need of something, my lady?" the servant asks, eying the dagger in Sif's hand with moderate alarm. 

"I was awaiting my aunt, the Lady Geirdís," Sif explains, as she hastens to secure the dagger in her boot. "I wish to speak with her. Do you know where she might be found?" 

"She returned briefly an hour ago, but then she was called to the palace by order of the queen, my lady. I do not know when she may return." 

"I see," Sif sighs, and with half-hearted sincerity she bids the servant good night and returns to her own chambers. 

She pulls the dagger from her boot and lets it rest in her hand, the weight of it heavier with memories she does not yet understand. Did Lady Arnfríðr know that her daughter dreamed of fighting just as much as she dreamed of frocks? Did she look at her child and see her own girlhood start again, did she know that her daughter would one day struggle to merge womanhood and warrioring? Had she managed it herself, hiding her ferocity from the rest of Asgard as she played the dutiful wife and mother? 

"What would you have me do?" she asks of the empty air. She cannot be her mother, not the mother of her memory and not the woman who wielded this dagger in secret. She is a lady and a fighter both; she will hide no part of herself to serve the other. 

The letter lies on the floor where she had dropped it earlier, and for a distraction she returns to it now. Loki's writing is unmistakable, and he has not bothered to disguise it, though she does not doubt for a moment that the words on this page will fade as soon as she takes her eyes from it.

> _Nothing save a good sword arm and a warrior's heart win Tyr's attention, and those things you already possess. Harvaldr, his former pupil, stands undefeated in the yards at present. It is not a task for the faint of heart, but if you apply your mind to the matter, surely you will prevail where others have been left to slink away in disgrace._
> 
> _Regards,  
>  A friend, who is pleased enough to have escaped your wrath (on  this day, at least).  
> _

Just as she suspected, the words fade as soon as she has read them, leaving the word _friend_ for only a second longer than the rest before it, too, disappears, a product now only of her memory. His phrasing seems odd and she wonders at it, wishing it had not vanished so that she might read it once more.

She paces the room, pondering Loki's missive; it is a puzzle that he has given her, one _not for the faint of heart_ , he said. How curious. She turns over the words of Loki's letter again and again. Did her clever comrade mean to tell her that Harvaldr is overly given to a feint of one kind or another? Just this afternoon she watched him defeat one of the yard's favorites and her eyebrows twitch as she retraces the steps of the last fighter she observed sparring with him, recalling Loki's words as she goes. Faint of heart, others have been left-- left! The benighted devil always feints left before his most fearsome attack. How had she failed to notice? It is no matter-- _someone_ noticed, anyway. A friend, or more than that, soon enough. 

"Oh, I could kiss you," she says to the air, grinning like a wild thing. 

When she had arrived home this afternoon, she had not been certain of what tomorrow might bring, but now, morning cannot come swiftly enough for her liking.

\+ + +

In the crisp morning air on the following day, the Lady Sif finds her victory against the formidable Harvaldr; Tyr awaits her on the edge of the yards as she strides away from her defeated opponent.

"Lady Sif," he says, offering his hand. "I have been meaning to speak with you about your training." 

She takes Tyr's hand eagerly. Over his shoulder, she sees Loki leaning against a nearby column, a smirk twisting his lips. Her concern for her future fades in the face of this victory and unexpected friendship, and her attempt to withhold a smile hardly seems worth the effort. 

Later that day, when she returns home from her first training session with Tyr, dirt from the yards on her cheeks and her mother's dagger in her boot, she informs her family of her decision to marry, an echo of that smile still living in the curve of her lips.


End file.
